


How Worth is Measured

by riffraffit



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Cutting, M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-09 19:04:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1994340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riffraffit/pseuds/riffraffit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>howtobeashipper said: Either a Joelay or Geovin angst-y prompt, with one of them dealing with self harm and relapse</p>
<p>Gavin is in the bathroom again, and it’s three AM again. He’s regretting not locking the door, but at the same time it’s that he always keeps the door unlocked because, in reality, he wants someone to walk in here and find him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Worth is Measured

Gavin is in the bathroom again, and it’s three AM again. He’s regretting not locking the door, but at the same time it’s that he always keeps the door unlocked because, in reality, he wants someone to walk in here and find him.  
He doesn’t at all want it to be Millie, but she won’t come in here at this time of night. Keep her out of this. There will be other three AMs that Millie will see, a long time from now, but not this one.

He doesn’t really want it to be Griffon. That would be okay, because Griffon is kind and she’s been there for him any time he wants to let her in, but he hates to see that disappointment on her pretty face. The only thing he wants for her is happiness.

But as he takes the razorblade and watches it push indentations in his skin, over, over, over again, it’s this that he wants uninterrupted. He decides that he’s ready for this right now, and he dips the corner of the blade into his skin and hisses, long and low. He drags it, tearing open those channels long closed. His eyes flutter, the pain screaming down his arms, and his shoulders are shaking now.

Gavin is in the bathroom again, getting himself all worked up over nothing again. One bad day and he’s relapsing, again. He pulls the blade out of the cut, watching the blood start to bubble up, knowing it won’t stop. He smears some of it, hot and sticky, over his skin. The film of fresh blood tints what skin it covers a disgusting orange. He recklessly slices again, a longer, thinner line appearing on his lower forearm. He shouldn’t be doing this. The door is unlocked.

It’s cut after cut, both methodical and careless at the same time. Gavin makes sure they all go in the same direction, but doesn’t give a damn how deep each one is. Some of them were shallow, tentative lines, and others drove straight down to the bone, splitting open, scars that would never fade, shaking his shoulders, an earthquake rupturing his body. He was nearly vibrating he was shaking so hard.

There’s footsteps in the hall, but he doesn’t hear them. All he hears is the rush of blood, he sees trails of bright red drenching his forearm. The door opens, and he whimpers.

Geoff is in the doorway again, and Gavin relapsed again. He looks tired, roused from his sleep, but not angry. Just tired.

Gavin snaps his head up, dropping the razor onto the floor and searching Geoff’s eyes for the disappointment he’s afraid he’ll find there—but he won’t find it.

Geoff takes him roughly, and pulling him forcefully over to the sink. Gavin protests—please, don’t, Geoff, please—but the man persists, taking his bleeding arm carefully but not gently, in his tattooed hands. He pulls Gavin’s arm under the sink, and turns on the water.

Gavin is hissing and whining loudly as Geoff holds his arm under the faucet, but the blood is washing down the sink and this is important. Geoff cleans the wounds with the water as Gavin tries to yank the arm away. The clear mingles with the dirty orange, but Gavin is just watching the black anchor stretch over Geoff’s knuckles. It just stings, but this is his punishment for relapsing and Geoff has every right to be mad at him—doesn’t he?

As soon as his arm is released, Gavin pulls it away, not touching it, but cradling it like a wounded bird would its wing.

Geoff knows where the gauze is, in the third drawer under their sink, and he takes a whole roll of it. Gavin’s arm hasn’t even come close to stopping the bleeding—red is already lapping at the edges of each wound as he unrolls the gauze, but he’s not going to make Gavin wash it again until morning, which isn’t too long from that 3 AM, so it would be fine.

Gavin becomes aware of the fact that there are salty tear trails all down his face—it’s red, and puffy, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in days. Geoff wraps the gauze tightly, but not too much, and he smoothes it very gently when he’s tied it in place.

Gavin hates to say it, but the question is heavy on his tongue. “Are you mad at me?”

The tattooed man just looks at him, tired and sad, but not angry. “Gavin. I’m not mad. I’m not upset at you, I just know you’re stronger than this.” Gavin feels tears prick at him again. It’s no use holding them back, and Geoff pulls him closer as he let out a dry sob. “I’ll do this as many times as I need to for you to realize that. You’re stronger than this.”

Gavin buries himself in Geoff’s shoulder again, thinking he’s worthless again. Thinking how he doesn’t deserve a home like this with people like Geoff. He thinks about how lucky he is to have a job like his. But he can’t stop fucking shaking.

“Come on, buddy. We’ve got to get you to bed.” Geoff says from over his shoulder. Gavin nods into the crook of his neck.

Geoff helps him walk shakily down the hallway, arms slung around each other’s necks, and he opens the door to his room inside the house, not the studio apartment out back—the room with a bed and a TV and not much else.

They plop down onto the mattress, the lamplight too bright. He doesn’t know what Geoff intends to do—he’d probably go back to sleep in his own bed, but at the moment, in his current state, Gavin didn’t trust himself to be alone. “Stay here?” Gavin asks.

Geoff is surprisingly firm in his answer. “Yeah. I’ll stay here, Gav.”

Gavin is almost asleep again, thinking maybe he isn’t worthless for the first time. Maybe happiness is measured in cheap beer and video games. Maybe worth is measured in how many people you’ve touched so deeply they’ll clean you up after three AM breakdowns.

It’s nine AM again, and Griffon finds Geoff and Gavin curled up in the spare bedroom, snoring like demons. She shakes her head, leaving them to rest while the day unfurls.

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for overusing this trope. I've written a number of self harm stories and I should probably stop that hahaha. It's a comfort zone, I'm sorry. Feedback is greatly appreciated! I write for leisure, though, so no harsh critiques please.


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